


The War Patrols of Brawler Aurora

by StrikerDouchecanoe



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, Everyone lives, F/M, Jaeger Pilots, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:45:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2696828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrikerDouchecanoe/pseuds/StrikerDouchecanoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Humanity has looked to the stars for comfort as long as any history can recall. When we are lonely, small, overwhelmed, or exhausted, we look up and consider the possibility of other life. We look up and think fondly that maybe, just maybe, we are not alone.</p><p>	We’re right.</p><p>~ ~ ~ ~<br/>An AU of the 100, featuring Bellamy and Clarke as copilots of the Mark V Jaeger Brawler Aurora.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Humanity has looked to the stars for comfort as long as our history can recall. When we are lonely, small, overwhelmed, or exhausted, we look up and consider the possibility of other life. We look up and think fondly that maybe, just maybe, we are not alone._

_We’re right._

_Deep beneath the surface of the Pacific Ocean, there is a dark place known to oceanographers as the Mariana Trench. Six and a half miles below the surface--no human has ever seen it--it is also a fault. A fissure between two tectonic plates that serves as the perfect weakness for other life to enter our world. We call it the Breach--a passageway between our dimension and theirs._

_We name them the_ Kaiju _, Japanese for ‘monster’. The first one makes land in San Francisco in 2013. We call it Invader. It terrorizes the coastline and wreaks death and destruction for five entire days before our military capabilities are able to kill it._

_We mourn the dead and leave the attack behind us. We believe it was an anomaly. We’re sure it will not happen again._

_We’re wrong._

_Six months later, the second Kaiju lays waste to Manila in the Philippines. There are only two survivors, siblings. We call the monster Floater. Shortly after, another one hits Cabo San Lucas. This one is called Phantom. And then the awful reality starts to sink in--the attacks will not stop. This is only the beginning, and humanity is hopelessly outmatched._

_When we build giant robots and teach ourselves to pilot them, we think that maybe our ancestors would have laughed at our audacity. We choose to be proud of our innovation. We call the metal giants_ Jaegers, _the German word for ‘hunter’._

_The pilots are carefully chosen; required to meet unwavering standards of fitness and discipline. But there is another criterion: compatibility. Two pilots mind-meld with the body of a massive metal weapon, fighting as one mind--one soul, some say. We call it the Drift._

_The only reason humanity survives is not the towering war machines. It is not the  failure of a coastal wall that we build in hopes of simply hiding from the Kaiju. The reason humanity survives is because of the connections between the Jaeger pilots. We owe our survival to the pilots of one Jaeger in particular--the Jaeger that stopped the war clock once and for all._

_Their names are Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin, and this is their story._

_  
_


	2. Vancouver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters will be switching POV's between Bellamy and Clarke. This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own. Please please leave reviews or let me know what you thought over at my tumblr (mechastation). Enjoy y'all :)

MAY 29, 2020

  


“Bel, wake up! Movement in the Breach!”

Bellamy Blake started groggily at the sound of his little sister’s voice.

“ _Bel!_ Come on, we’re being deployed, let’s _go!_ ”

Octavia was nothing if not a morning person, Bellamy griped to himself as he rolled out of his bunk. A glance at the clock as he tugged on a shirt revealed it to be just after 0200 hours, and he stifled a groan, wondering if the Kaiju could be bothered to attack at decent hours.

It would be his third drop with Octavia in Atlas Swift, the Mark III Jaeger assigned to the Blake siblings. Bellamy’d only done this twice before, but somehow he managed to get himself dressed and walk with Octavia to where Atlas’ conn pod waited.

Standing outside the pod as the techs tightened the rivets on his drivesuit, Bellamy felt some of the sleepiness lift, not missing the fact that the metal plating of the suit would do nothing to protect him--or his kid sister--from a several-thousand-ton monster. Technically, Octavia wasn’t a kid, but she’d been Bellamy’s responsibility since the second Kaiju made land in the Philippines, and it wasn’t a responsibility he took lightly. He felt the weight on his shoulders with every breath he took, and it was a struggle to keep that wave of emotion contained when he and his sister--his copilot--were in the Drift.

Octavia flashed Bellamy a grin before the tech lowered her helmet over her dark ponytail. She was all fire and confidence and boundless courage, barely eighteen and a graduate of the Jaeger Academy with honors, the best combat and strategy student ever to go through the Academy. Bellamy wasn’t sure how it had happened, but sometime in the haze of fear and pain after Manila, she’d gone to bed a scared little girl and woken up a steel-eyed warrior hell-bent on learning to kill Kaijus.

The siblings entered Atlas Swift’s conn pod and stepped into their respective harnesses--Bellamy in the left hemisphere, Octavia in the right--and Bellamy felt the last vestiges of drowsiness replaced by the adrenaline of walking into combat.

If it hadn’t been for pilot training and his Drift compatibility with Octavia, Bellamy didn’t doubt he’d still be mopping floors for barely any wage and picking fight after fight in back alleys, hoping that punching _just one more_ asshole in the face would be enough to assuage the grief and anger he’d carried with him his entire life. But O had convinced him to enlist when she did, and now he was a soldier--more than that, he’d probably be remembered as a _war hero_ , a thought which elicited a self-deprecating smirk every time it crossed Bellamy’s mind.

The sound of the comm in his ear jarred Bellamy out of his existential reverie and back into reality as the pod dropped onto the body of their Jaeger.

“Atlas Swift, this is Marshal Angela Hansen. Your orders are to hold the Miracle Mile off of Vancouver. Do you copy?”

Bellamy keyed the switch in front of him. “Marshal, this is Atlas Swift, we read you loud and clear.”

“The Kaiju is a Category III,” Marshal Hansen continued. “It’s been codenamed Naitaka. Mecha Brutus had orders to hold it at the ten mile line, but Rangers Hansen and Murphy have sustained damage to their machine and been ordered to withdraw. You two are our last line of defense,” she finished sharply. Bellamy and Octavia exchanged a glance, both sure they didn’t imagine the quaver in the Marshal’s voice when she mentioned her son.

“Atlas Swift, we copy, Marshal,” Octavia answered.

“Prepare for neural handshake,” Marshal Hansen commanded. Bellamy rolled his neck and took a deep breath.

“Initiating neural handshake,” the voice of Hansen’s right hand guy, Wick, said over the comm. And with that, Bellamy plunged into his sister’s mind.

 

Before their first Drift, Octavia had showed Bellamy a quote, something one of the Mark I hotshot pilots had said. Bellamy could never remember the guy’s name (O was always better with that stuff anyway), but he and Octavia had adopted the quote as their fighting motto: _“There are things you can’t fight, acts of God. You see a hurricane coming, you have to get out of the way. But when you’re in a Jaeger, suddenly, you can fight the hurricane. You can win.”_  

Every time they initiated a Drift, both of them made a point to make the quote their first thought. Today was no exception, Bellamy noted as Octavia’s adrenaline rush surged through his mind.

“Left hemisphere is calibrating,” he announced over the comm.

“Right hemisphere, calibrating,” Octavia echoed.

As one mind, Bellamy and Octavia raised their fists and briefly locked into Atlas’ fighting stance before setting off towards the Miracle Mile line to intercept their latest nightmare. _Slay your demons while you’re awake_ , Bellamy had told himself every day since he was thirteen. _Then they won’t be able to get you when you sleep._ Incredibly, it worked. It still wasn’t enough, but every time he and Octavia slammed their massive fists against a Kaiju’s skull, Bellamy felt a little bit of his anger and grief bleed off.

Walking a mile and a half in a twenty-eight story machine goes by in only a few heartbeats, and Bellamy felt Octavia thanking her lucky stars for that. He couldn’t help but agree--the longer he had to think about the sheer nerve of two tiny humans piloting a weapon forty times their size against what was all but fucking Godzilla, the more afraid he became. Thankfully, before he was given a chance to ponder it, a dark mountain rose from the water on their left side, and he and O went in swinging.

Naitaka was the largest Category III Kaiju either Bellamy or his sister had ever seen, a fact that registered in the back of Bellamy’s mind as he and Octavia drove a metal-armed punch home between the monster’s eyes. They didn’t give it time to recover before slamming Atlas’ fists down onto its huge skull. As Naitaka regained its bearings, Bellamy and Octavia took a swift sidestep, buying themselves a moment to heat up the plasma cannon.

It was a perfect strategic ploy; the kind they’d learned how to do day after day at the Academy. And, in the morbidly odd way that life sometimes works, it was in that moment of perfectly executed strategy that things began to go terribly wrong.

Three shots went off. Bellamy never knew why later on. The clip was supposed to carry twelve shots. But only three went off, and Naitaka sank its teeth into their Jaeger’s right arm while Octavia was still pulling the trigger in disbelief.

He felt her pain as her drivesuit sparked and burned along her right side, trying to get around so he could stab at the monster with the remaining good arm.

They were out of phase; Bellamy could feel it as the left arm lagged. He was suddenly carrying the neural weight of the entire Jaeger, and he felt rather than heard Octavia’s scream as she collapsed in her harness, hanging limp except for the quivers that ran through her whenever her drivesuit sparked.

Bellamy knew he was screaming, his fear and anger exploding from his throat in a wordless roar, but all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears as he loaded the left plasma cannon and emptied the clip into the Kaiju’s chest, swinging and jabbing with the Jaeger’s left arm even after Naitaka was laid open from sternum to spine.

He didn’t feel his drivesuit burning him then as he turned for shore, holding the entire Jaeger together with nothing but his will. The only thing he knew to do was get O to safety. That was all that mattered with each shaky step towards the Vancouver coastline.

Bellamy wouldn’t let himself wonder whether she was alive--wouldn’t even reach out with his mind to feel whether the Drift was intact--focusing only on the nearing strip of land and the safety that awaited both of them.

 _One foot in front of the other,_ he told himself. _Slay your demons. Keep walking._

The only demon Bellamy had never learned to slay was the image of his kid sister, slumped in her harness, her drivesuit sparking and burning into her skin, and it was an image that would haunt him for years and years to come.

His vision grew cloudy as he struggled to stay conscious, forcing the twenty-eight story machine to keep moving toward shore, and he felt another scream rip through his chest as he dug for the strength to keep moving.

Atlas Swift fell to its knees in the shallows off the coast, and Bellamy gritted his teeth, using the last of his strength to crawl _just a little closer_ so that the conn pod wouldn’t be in danger of flooding, he _had_ to keep O safe--and then he’d made it.

Finally, as a blood red sun rose over the Vancouver skyline, Bellamy Blake let himself collapse, his mind spiraling into the oblivion of unconsciousness.


	3. Clarke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Megan, who is the most beautiful human ever <3 thank you and ilysm <3 Clarke is very difficult to write, but she's also a lot of fun. Hope you guys enjoy it!!

JULY 17, 2023

 

The last question on the written test was the easiest, Clarke Griffin thought with a smirk. She’d passed her final sparring exam with flying colors and executed three simulator drops, and she was almost finished with the three-hour written exam that would allow her to graduate the Jaeger Academy.

The final question on the test read: _Who is the only pilot to have survived solo combat in a Jaeger?_

  1. _Yancy Becket_

  2. _Bellamy Blake_

  3. _John Murphy_

  4. _Angela Hansen_




It was a dead giveaway, really. Angela Hansen had never stepped foot in a Jaeger. Yancy Becket and his brother--Clarke couldn’t remember his name, but he was the one who’d said that thing about fighting hurricanes--had been killed in combat against Consumer in 2017. And John Murphy only had one drop to his name, and it hadn’t involved combat because he was piloting with the Marshal’s son anyway.

Which left Bellamy Blake, who’d singlehandedly killed Naitaka (the largest Category III on record) and then piloted Atlas Swift through two miles of open water with his copilot unconscious in her harness. An experience, Clarke reflected, that was probably all the more frightening thanks to the fact that Bellamy’s copilot, Octavia Blake, was his kid sister.

Clarke shook her head and stood to hand in her exam. That was someone else’s business. Hers was to graduate the Academy with marks that would shut the World Security Council up once and for all, become a Jaeger pilot, and finish what her father had started.

With the written exam over, Clarke had the rest of the day off. She and her classmates would get their marks back tomorrow, and the brief graduation ceremony was at the end of the week--after which she’d be tasked.

Most graduates went straight into the screening process for finding a copilot, eager to be assigned a Jaeger as soon as possible. Others became mechanics or special engineers, J-Techs, repairing or building the machines. And others still--like Clarke’s father--were tasked to Kaiju biology, K-Science, their life’s work to learn as much as possible about their enemy.

 _No_. Clarke slammed that door before it had the chance to open further. She would not think about her father. Not today.

Lost in her thoughts, she looked up to find herself in the long hallway outside the Kwoon--the sparring room where everyone learned fighting techniques (and where she’d eventually spar with potential copilots). The Academy had two, and every Shatterdome housed one.

Clarke stepped inside and lowered her bag off her shoulder onto the mats, wishing for someone to spar with. But it was after exams, and most of the almost-graduates were probably outside enjoying the sun. She toed off her shoes and hefted a bamboo pole anyway, stepping into the center of the room. It was difficult to practice fighting without an opponent, but it wasn’t the first time she’d come down here when everyone else was preoccupied.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. There was no shortage of enemies in her mind to face off against. Clarke slid easily into her fighting stance--feet apart, center of gravity lowered, holding the _kendo_ like a broadsword.

_Inhale, exhale._

The first of Clarke’s nightmares fought its way to the surface--her mother, no more than a face on a screen at the World Security Council now. Clarke swung the _kendo_ , ducked, sidestepped, struck again. Blocked a strike with two hands on the bamboo. Matched a series of imaginary strikes, stepping forward across the mats, pressing her invisible opponent back across the room.

The longer Clarke struck and parried and dodged, the more things she was swinging at. The pilots of Crimson Spacewalker, who held the record for most Kaiju killed. The piece of a Kaiju’s brain sitting innocuously in a lab that ruined her life. One member after another of the WSC. Octavia Blake, the pilot who had graduated with the best scores in the history of the Academy.

She would be better than them all. She had to be. No room for error, and no room for weakness. It was what she told herself every minute of every day.

Clarke spun, both hands on her _kendo_ , striking with the left end and then the right at lightning speed, then sidestepping and bringing the bamboo staff down as hard as she could.

The sound of wood snapping and splintering jarred Clarke out of the near-trancelike state she fought in, and she looked down at the pieces of bamboo in embarrassment, shirt sticking to her skin and chest heaving, blonde ponytail a disheveled mess.

“It’s a dialogue,” her instructor said from the door behind her. “Not a fight.”

Clarke spun around, jaw hardening. “Sometimes it’s a fight,” she countered.

The fightmaster shook his head. “That’s what I thought when I first learned. But in order to fight, you’re going to have to learn to speak.”

“That makes no sense,” Clarke huffed.

A smile crept across his face. “It will, Clarke,” he said. “When you meet your copilot, you’ll get it.”

He turned to leave, and Clarke bent down to pick up the remains of her splintered _kendo_ from the Kwoon floor.

“Oh, and I’m supposed to tell you to report to Command within the hour,” he added, halfway out the door. “You’re being tasked.”

 

Less than twenty minutes later, Clarke stood outside the door to Command, showered and in her solid navy fatigues--PPDC standard issue for cadets. An undeniable current of nervousness was humming in her blood, just beneath the surface. She wasn’t supposed to be tasked for another two days--she wasn’t even a _graduate_ yet.

Before she had too much time to think, the door opened and a stern-faced man in a lieutenant’s uniform waved her inside.

Seated behind the Commander’s desk was Marshal Angela Hansen. She rose when Clarke entered and stepped around the desk to shake the cadet’s hand.

“Cadet Griffin,” she said. “Have a seat.”

“Marshal,” Clarke replied, still standing. “Why am I here?”

Angela’s brows knitted. “You’re being tasked,” she said. “I thought you’d been told.”

“I was,” Clarke said. “No one gets tasked the day of exams. We’re tasked after the ceremony.”

The Marshal stood, a small smile on her face. “Are you prepared to take your oath?” she asked.

Clarke nodded, jaw clenching.

“Raise your right hand and repeat after me,” Marshal Hansen said. “I, Clarke Griffin, vow to protect and defend humanity to the best of my ability…”

“I, Clarke Griffin, vow to protect and defend humanity to the best of my ability,” Clarke echoed.

“...In whatever field I am tasked to…”

“In whatever field I am tasked to.”

“...With the understanding that I, in all my endeavors, am humanity’s last line of defense…”

“With the understanding that I, in all my endeavors, am humanity’s last line of defense.” The words sent a chill down Clarke’s spine, and she immediately chastised herself. War was not something to get chills over. She was in this for revenge, not for glory.

“...So help me God,” Marshal Hansen finished.

“So help me God,” Clarke said, left fist clenching at her side.

The Marshal smiled again. “Ranger Griffin,” she said, moving back to her seat, “You have been tasked to the design and engineering of the first Mark V Jaeger, Brawler Aurora.”

Clarke couldn’t hide the shock on her face. A _J-Tech?_ After all the time she’d spent in the Kwoon? After countless successful simulator drops? All her hard work, and she wasn’t being allowed onto the front lines?

Marshal Hansen must have noticed Clarke’s expression, because her eyebrows raised slightly before she continued. “Given your equal aptitude for engineering and combat, you will be assigned a copilot when the construction of Brawler Aurora is complete. Congratulations, Ranger.”

Clarke’s jaw dropped before she could stop it. “I’ll be--Brawler Aurora’s _pilot?_ ” she managed. No one had ever engineered _and_ piloted a Jaeger. Only one other person had shown equal aptitude for two fields, and when he mixed Drifting with K-Science, it had cost him his life.

“That is correct, Ranger Griffin,” the Marshal said. “You’re dismissed--you will ship out for the Anchorage Shatterdome tomorrow morning.”

 

Outside Command in the hallway, Clarke allowed a grin to break through her stoic mask. _I’m going to be a pilot._

 

 


	4. I'll Heal, But Not Your Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next few updates are gonna be kind of angsty (what do you expect though), but hopefully the Blake Sibling Sass-Fest makes up for all the ouch in this chapter. Bonus points for spotting the Bellarke foreshadowing! :)

NOVEMBER 1, 2023

 

They wouldn’t let Bellamy quit going to therapy.

After Vancouver, he and O had been put through extensive PT to treat the damage from their drivesuits and the injuries they’d sustained when Atlas Swift fell--Bellamy, a broken arm and a shattered shoulderblade, Octavia a severe concussion and three cracked vertebrae--and the psych analysts had insisted that they go through cognitive therapy too.

Bellamy thought it was bullshit.

He wasn’t going to talk about what had happened with that Kaiju, not now and not ever. The hours spent in an infuriatingly soft armchair were, in his opinion, a waste of time. But he hadn’t been cleared by the assholes in the psych division; and that meant he wasn’t allowed to run, he wasn’t allowed to climb, and worst of all, he wasn’t allowed in the Kwoon.

That left Bellamy with only the walls in his room to hit (which he did, and often)--something the psych people hated. At the moment, he was sitting in that god-awful armchair with a sprained wrist and blood congealing on his knuckles, barely pretending to listen to the condescending psych guy in front of him talk about things like _dealing with the stress of your accident in a positive way_ and _finding a healthy outlet_ and _learning not to repress your feelings_.

Once again--bullshit.

On more than a few occasions, Bellamy’d had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting in the guy’s face that working out was a goddamn positive outlet or whatever they wanted him to find. Oh, and they wanted him to talk to Octavia too. He _couldn’t_. He couldn’t face her, not after seeing her on death’s door in her harness, not after he’d let her get hurt. And sure, the psychs had told him it _wasn’t his fault,_ but the first thing you learned in training was that your copilot was your responsibility. Drifting was about trust, and Bellamy--in his mind, at least--had betrayed it.

He’d seen Octavia last year, gone to visit during a PT session, and he’d barely managed a ‘hello’ once he saw her. She’d been working on relearning her fighting stance, reversing the damage done by the concussion, and she’d barely been able to balance, let alone wield a _kendo_. He’d refused to see her ever since, couldn’t handle watching her hurt--and worse, watching her forgive him for letting this happen to her. He didn’t deserve that, not from O.

“Bellamy,” the psych guy said. “Did you hear me?”

“Probably not,” Bellamy deadpanned, lacing his bloodied fingers behind his head and leaning back in the chair, a mirthless grin spreading across his face at the other man’s obvious aggravation.

“Bellamy--” he began in the placating tone that meant _you’re not trying_ and _you have to work through this our way or you’re not stepping foot in a Jaeger ever again_ , but a commotion outside the door prevented him from finishing his sentence. Shouting was coming from the hallway, followed by a crash and a muffled ‘Ow!’

It sounded to Bellamy like one of the shrinks had just gotten punched in the teeth, a thought that drew a real smile from him. Then the door burst open, the shouting spilling into the room along with a tidal wave of intricately braided brown hair and a psych intern covering his broken nose with his hands.

“Sorry--Doctor--tried to stop her--” the kid spluttered through the mess of blood down his nose and chin.

“Do you mind?” the brown-haired storm snapped. “I haven’t seen my brother in over a year.”

“O?” Bellamy managed.

“Yep,” Octavia said, grabbing his wrist (the sprained one, of course--typical O) and hauling him to his feet. “C’mon, we’re going down to the Kwoon.”

“Mr. Blake isn’t cleared--” the shrink started.

“ _Ranger_ Blake,” Octavia interrupted, “Is cleared if I _say_ he’s cleared. You gonna move, or do you want a nose to match Pete?”

“It’s Patrick, actually,” the intern corrected.

“Yeah, Pete, I’m aware,” Octavia said, flashing him a smile. The intern about melted in his shoes, Bellamy noticed with amusement. God, he’d missed his copilot.

“I really can’t let Mr. Blake into the Kwoon without clearance,” the doctor blustered.

Bellamy glanced at O, his face splitting into a shit-eating grin. “It’s _Ranger_ , actually. And are _you_ gonna stop me?”

“ _That’s_ the jackass I last saw in 2020,” Octavia said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s go, you need to hit something that’s not a wall and I have to start hitting things that aren’t Pete.”

“Patrick,” mumbled the blood-covered kid.

Neither Bellamy or Octavia dignified him with a response as they walked out the door.

 

“Not that I’m upset you got me out of there,” Bellamy started as he unlaced his shoes inside the Kwoon, “But...what are you doing, O?”

“Just pick up a _kendo_ , Bel,” Octavia said, shrugging out of her jacket. “You need to fight, not talk. Obviously,” she added with a pointed glance at his knuckles.

“I can’t--Octavia, I can’t spar with you,” he gritted out. “What if--”

Octavia cut him off, raising her voice and throwing a staff at him a little harder than necessary. “I’m not here as your sister, Bellamy,” she interrupted. “I’m here as your copilot, because I’ve Drifted with you and I know how you work. So let’s go.”

“O, what if I hurt you?” he asked, the words quiet and filled with more emotion than he’d meant to betray.

Her expression softened. “We’re copilots, Bel. It’s a dialogue, remember? I know you. I’ve been in your head. You can’t talk with words worth shit. So talk with a _kendo_.”

Bellamy nodded, stepping forward onto the mat. His fingers curled around the bamboo like it had been only yesterday that he’d held one, and he reflexively settled into his old fighting stance--feet apart, kendo held like a sword, knees bent. Octavia grinned and turned her body sideways, leaning forward and holding her _kendo_ across her shoulder like a baseball bat. It wasn’t the stance she’d used before, and Bellamy cringed.

Instead of saying something, Octavia lunged. Bellamy blocked the strike and stepped forward, pressing for more ground while Octavia continued her lightning-fast attack. One-two-three-four-five, not a fight but a conversation, the strikes reverberating through Bellamy’s bones and jarring the sprain in his wrist and bringing him back to himself for the first time in three long years.

It was easy for Bellamy to listen to O when they sparred.

_Bel, I’ve drifted with you. You’re a terrible liar._

Six-seven-eight-nine-ten, and he remembered red warning lights flashing and electricity searing his skin, and the sound of his sister’s scream shattering the Drift.

_I know what you carried into all those drifts, you know._

Now Bellamy was calling the strikes as O moved forward and he lost the ground he’d gained, the clacking of the bamboo beating in time to his heart. He remembered dragging Atlas to shore and blacking out and the three days of nightmares that followed before the medics could wake him up. Everything he’d been trying to hold away was suddenly in his head, flashing before his eyes, and it was all he could do to keep chasing his sister’s strikes.

_You didn’t cause the accident. You saved my life, Bel. It’s not your fault._

Octavia swung at his knees and he jumped over the blow, responding with one of his own towards her right shoulder. She twisted away and before Bellamy knew exactly what had happened, she’d disarmed him and slammed him to the mat.

“Thanks,” he managed, responding out loud to everything she’d just said in the ghost of the Drift. He let his head fall back onto the mat, out of breath and clenching his jaw against the tears threatening to well up.

Octavia stood up. “I know why you’ve been off the map this last year, Bel,” she said matter-of-factly. “I know you’re avoiding me, and I know it’s because you put all the blame on yourself, just like you did after Manila.”

“O--” Bellamy started, shaking his head.

“I am talking,” she snapped. “You don’t get to sequester yourself away from everything because you think you’re _protecting the world from yourself._ You don’t get to yank out the last family I have from under my feet because you blame yourself for everything. Do you understand?”

Mouth open in shock, Bellamy nodded. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking away from his copilot’s green-eyed glare.

“I know,” O said. “I know you are. And I know that you’re gonna take time to get back on your feet, but you don’t just get to walk out on your copilot. We have a responsibility to each other, Bel. That’s how it is, and you need to recognize that you’re not the only one who’s hurting here.”

He nodded again, standing up slowly and making his way toward the door.

“I’m not pissed at you, Bel,” Octavia said from behind him, her tone softer.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Bellamy deadpanned, pulling on his shoes.

“I know you, remember?” she said flippantly. “You weren’t gonna get your head out of your ass if I asked nicely.”

Bellamy snorted despite himself. “Thanks,” he said, standing to join his sister as she walked out the door.

“It’s a war,” Octavia pointed out. “People get hurt. Shit happens. I knew that when I signed up.”

Bellamy sighed. “So did I,” he said. “It’s easier in theory.”

“So is getting your head out of your ass, apparently,” Octavia muttered under her breath.

Bellamy reached out and messed up her hair. “ _That’s_ the jackass I last saw in 2020,” he mocked.


	5. Vodka and Coke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I am //so// sorry that this took as long as it did. I worked two doubles and a private party at the restaurant last weekend, and I didn't get my muse back until yesterday. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy the update. Feedback (or just lots of praise) is always appreciated. Comment or hit me up at mechastation.tumblr.com!! Bellamy and Clarke will be meeting in the next couple of chapters, so please don't lose interest on me just yet. All the exposition is almost over. And you get to find out what happened to Jake Griffin in this chapter.

FEBRUARY 11, 2024

 

“Clarke!”

Someone was yelling at her from the platform below.

“ _What?”_ Clarke called back in irritation, lifting the welding shield from her face to send a glare in the general direction of whoever was interrupting her on the one quiet workday she’d get this week.

“Sorry,” the girl called back up. “Um, your--your mom’s on the phone?”

Clarke could hardly blame the girl (Harper, was it??) for flinching. She unclipped her harness and walked to the lift at the edge of the scaffolding, earning a glare from the head mechanic, Nathan Miller, three stories above. She stepped into the lift, ignoring Miller’s shout of, “ _Harness_ , Clarke, for the _hundredth_ time!”

When Clarke reached the platform, Harper was all but shaking in her boots.

“Sorry to pull you away from work,” she managed, her voice squeaking. “They sort of--might have--threatened me with court martial if I didn’t come get you.”

“They?” Clarke asked, pulling the welding shield off her head.

“Um--it might also be Councillor Jaha,” Harper admitted.

“Which one?” Clarke pressed as they reached the door of the communications room.

“Wells,” Harper mumbled.

Clarke heaved a sigh, trying to contain the swell of rage in her chest. “It figures,” she said. “Thanks, Harper.” The other girl nodded and all but turned tail and ran back towards LOCCENT--Mission Command, the heart of each Shatterdome.

Clarke had only gotten a couple of days to actually get up on the scaffolding and work on Brawler Aurora ( _her Jaeger_ , she always thought). The rest had been spent fixing engineering flukes, going over blueprint after blueprint with Miller, conferencing with the Marshal, and sparring with anyone who had time. She didn’t remember the last time she’d slept more than four hours consecutively.

And today, the day she finally got to spend time helping with Aurora, was the day the WSC had chosen to harass her about the events of nine years ago.

Clarke took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the video conference room, taking in her mother’s face on a screen. Wells was on the next one over--so they weren’t in the same place, then.

“Councillors,” Clarke said, holding her shoulders back and trying to inject as much ice into her tone as possible. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Clarke, we need to talk,” Wells started. Clarke shook her head to cut him off.

Until the _incident,_ Wells Jaha had been her best friend. She’d been trying to convince him to enlist in the PPDC at the time so that the two of them could go and save the world together--the naive dream of a thirteen-year-old, she realized now. Wells had always intended to join the WSC. Maybe he’d always intended to betray her. Clarke still didn’t know.

“No, Councillor Jaha,” she said, fighting to keep her voice level. “You need to talk, obviously, given that you pulled me away from work on the PPDC’s first Mark V Jaeger. If what you have to say is more worth my time than the construction of Brawler Aurora, then I’ll listen.”

She didn’t miss the flash of hurt that crossed both faces on the screens in front of her.

Wells cleared his throat and lowered his eyes. “It’s been nine years, Clarke,” he muttered. “Can’t we at least talk?”

Clarke shook her head, willing the tears in her eyes not to spill over. “I have nothing to say,” she said measuredly. “Get to the point, Councillors. I have a Jaeger to finish building.”

Wells’ screen abruptly went dark, the words _call disconnected_ flashing in red over where his face had been only seconds before. Clarke turned to face her mother’s screen, realizing that Abby Griffin hadn’t said a word the entire time.

“I wish you’d give him a chance, Clarke,” Abby sighed.

“Like the Council gave Dad a chance?” Clarke retaliated, the color rising in her face.

Abby squeezed her eyes shut, mouth hardening into a line. “Clarke, that isn’t fair. You know how I voted.”

“You _abstained!_ ” Clarke shouted. “You didn’t even love your own husband enough to vote no, so don’t waste my time. Not to mention,” she pressed on, raising her voice against Abby’s attempt at speech,  “When you stay neutral in a life or death vote, you’re condemning someone to death.” The tears were falling now, boiling and salty and traitorous on Clarke’s cheeks.

“Clarke--” Abby began.

“I have nothing more to say to you,” Clarke interrupted as loudly as she could. “Goodbye, Councillor.” She turned on her heel and stalked out the door of the conference room, tears blurring her vision--and slammed right into Miller.

“Whoa, Clarke,” he exclaimed, reaching out to steady her. “What’s going on?”

Clarke took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted her reddened eyes to meet Miller’s. “Today’s the nine year anniversary of my dad dying,” she managed, “And my mom--she wanted to _talk_ to me.”

Miller nodded decisively, giving Clarke’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “You’ve got the rest of today off,” he said. “Let’s go get drunk.”

 

Less than an hour later, Clarke followed Miller into the only bar left in Anchorage, only a half mile from the Shatterdome. They were supposed to be meeting people Miller knew from another division, plus Harper from LOCCENT.

It was nice to be outside a building for a little while, Clarke had thought as they’d walked down the cracked concrete sidewalk under the gray Alaskan sky, the chill in the air seeping through Clarke’s sweater and into her bones. By the time Miller pushed open the door to the rundown bar, she’d been shivering.

Miller grabbed her arm and pulled her toward a booth, where Clarke recognized Harper sitting with two strangers.

“Guys, this is Clarke,” he said by way of introduction. “What do you want to drink, Clarke?”

“Vodka and Coke,” she answered over her shoulder before turning back to face the men at the table. The one in the middle, a gangly guy with a pair of ski goggles perched in his mop of black hair, leaned forward to shake her hand.

“Jasper Jordan,” he said. “K-Science and recreational gardening.”

The other boy at the table let out a snort. “By _recreational gardening,_ he means he grows his own weed,” he said. “Monty Green. Also K-Science.”

“Nice to meet you guys,” Clarke said, sliding into the booth. “Clarke Griffin.”

“What division?” Jasper asked, taking a pull out of the PBR can in front of him.

“J-Tech,” Clarke muttered.

“Wrong,” Miller said as he arrived back at the booth carrying drinks. “She’s head engineer on Brawler Aurora and one of the pilots once construction’s done. Here’s your jet fuel, Clarke,” he added, passing Clarke the glass.

Monty let out a low whistle. “Damn,” he said. “That’s impressive.”

Clarke hid her smile in her drink, making a face at the taste of the alcohol overpowering the soda.

“Isn’t it kinda early for vodka?” Jasper asked, eyebrows crawling up towards his goggles. Clarke grimaced and took another long drink.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “It’s...today’s nine years since my dad died.” Miller slung an arm over her shoulders and Monty reached across the table to give her arm a squeeze.

“Clarke...Griffin? Your dad wasn’t, uh, Doctor Jake Griffin, was he?” Jasper asked. Clarke nodded, looking down at her glass in her hands in an effort to hide the tears in her eyes.

Jasper reached for her hand and sandwiched it between both of his. “Your dad was the reason I pushed so hard to be tasked in K-Science,” he said. “He’s an inspiration to every Kaiju biologist there is.”

Clarke looked up at Jasper, managing a grateful--if watery--smile.

“He cared about humanity,” Monty added. “Like... _all_ of humanity, you know? Not just the ones who are in the Council’s good books.”

Clarke nodded, remembering the week before her dad had died. The WSC had wanted to start moving what they called _essential personnel_ three hundred miles inland, to what had been termed the ‘safe zone’. Her dad and the PPDC hadn’t believed there was any such thing as a safe zone, not against monsters that could travel from the Breach to the coast of North America in an hour. The WSC had threatened to arrest him if he released his theory, and he’d initiated a Drift with a fragment of a Kaiju’s brain--to be exact, Scissure--the same Kaiju that had killed the Hansen brothers, pilots of Fury Mariner.

The kicker, Clarke had always thought, was that the Drift didn’t have to be fatal. The WSC had voted not to sanction the experiment, which meant that her dad had literally gone head to head with Scissure with a neural bridge he’d piecemealed together from the scrap pile. It had been the WSC’s fault nine years ago, and it was their fault now.

Jasper gave Clarke’s hand one last squeeze and then withdrew, jarring her out of her thoughts.

Her cheeks were streaked with tears, but she couldn’t help feeling a spark of happiness when Miller cleared his throat and raised his glass.

“To Jake Griffin,” he said.

“To Jake Griffin,” Harper echoed.

“To finishing what he started,” Jasper said firmly, holding up his PBR can.

“To fighting for _all_ of humanity,” Monty added.

“To my dad,” Clarke whispered, lifting her own glass to clink it against the others’ drinks. The last of her vodka burned as she knocked it back.


	6. Old Demons, New Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there are some trigger warnings for this chapter. Be warned for emetophobia (vomiting), implied dissociation, hallucinations, self hatred/suicidal ideation ish and self harm. And nightmares, if you don't do well reading/hearing about nightmares. I think that's it, and I apologize for the intensity, but I wasn't going to write this half-ass. PTSD is a major suck fest.

JANUARY 25, 2025

 

_He was back in Atlas’ conn pod. This time, however, it wasn’t Naitaka who rose out of the water--and he wasn’t off the coast of Vancouver. He was standing on the outskirts of Manila, watching Floater charge the beach, his machine’s movements sluggish and hazy as he tried to maintain his fighting stance._

_It took him a moment to realize that his head was too empty--that something was terribly wrong--and when he looked to his right, he saw Octavia, slumped lifeless in her harness, just before the full neural load of the Jaeger crashed down around his neck. Atlas wouldn’t respond as he swung his arms furiously, trying anything to get the metal giant to move._

_And then, as if in slow motion, he watched as Floater crashed through a building--oh, God, no, not_ that _building, please God nononono--and he heard his mother’s screams as brick and steel snapped like matches, and then--_

 

“Bel! Bellamy! It’s me, it’s Octavia, wake up!”

Bellamy shot bolt upright, soaked with sweat and wild-eyed, nearly headbutting his little sister.

“Vancouver?” she asked, rubbing his shoulders.

He shook his head, swiping the back of his hand across his tearstained face.

“Manila,” he whispered.

Octavia leaned forward and pulled him into a crushing hug. “It’s okay, Bel,” she said. “It was just a dream. It’s 2025. We’re safe.”

Bellamy nodded. _But I couldn’t save either of you,_ he thought.

“We’re shipping out today,” Octavia reminded him, pulling back. “Hong Kong.”

“Right,” he heard himself say. “What time is it?”

“Oh-seven-hundred,” O said. “We have to be on the chopper in an hour.”

“‘Kay,” Bellamy muttered, already on autopilot. “I gotta shower.”

Octavia nodded in acknowledgement and left, quietly shutting the door behind her. Bellamy waited to hear her footsteps retreating down the hallway before he made for the bathroom. He barely made it to the stainless steel sink before he doubled over, retching up whatever was left of whatever crappy rations he’d eaten the night before. Flashes of the nightmare reeled behind his eyes, the sound of his mother’s phantom screams worsening the nausea until there was nothing left for his stomach to reject.

When the dry heaves finally subsided, Bellamy picked up his toothbrush, scrubbing the taste of fear out of his mouth in a daze. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him, and he felt a sudden wave of rage. His own face was the last thing he ever wanted to see again.

 _You couldn’t save them,_ he thought, fists clenching. _But you get off safe and alive? What the fuck?_

Bellamy punched the mirror as hard as he could, sending a crack skating across his own face (and probably sending one through one of his knuckles, too, judging by the sharp pain in his right hand). He kept swinging, right and left, hitting his own reflection, relishing the pain in his hands with every blow.

_You deserve this. You shouldn’t even fucking be alive._

If his knuckle hadn’t been broken before, his next swing finished the job, shattering the mirror and the bones in Bellamy’s hand in one fell swoop. He kept swinging, ignoring the screaming nerves, only stopping when he drew his fist back and noticed the glass shard driven into the skin between his knuckles.

Bellamy looked down at the broken glass, his bloodied knuckles, and the quickly blackening bruise where he’d broken his hand; finally, for the first time since Octavia had shaken him awake, he could breathe again.

 

Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed and five minutes late, Bellamy walked out to the helipad, ignoring the look O gave him when he strapped into his seat one-handed. Octavia’s new copilot, Lincoln, nodded hello. Bellamy returned the gesture and stared out the window at the retreating ground.

The psych people had explained that it would be a bad idea for he and O to step into a neural bridge again after the accident. Octavia had agreed, pointing out to Bellamy that they wouldn’t be effective against so much as a snapping turtle with all of the guilt their Drift now carried. Bellamy had had no choice but to comply. He needed to get back in a Jaeger, even if it wasn’t with the only person he’d ever trusted (the only person he’d ever trust as long as he lived, he often thought).

Then, he’d walked into the Kwoon one day to find O sparring with Lincoln--and even he’d had to admit that their compatibility was all but a physical entity. When Lincoln had caught his eye, Bellamy had given a tiny nod.

“Octavia’s in good hands,” Lincoln had said to him one day in the mess hall. Before Bellamy had had a chance to respond, Lincoln added, “Her own.”

The words scared the shit out of Bellamy. But he had to admit that Lincoln was right. O was twenty-one and already had more drops to her name than some pilots twice her age had managed. She was a capable strategist and a formidable fighter--but when Bellamy looked at her, he still saw a scared nine-year-old girl, running through the burning streets of Manila and clinging to his hand as their world crumbled around them.

Bellamy flexed his broken hand to snap himself out of the memory, hissing as pain lanced up his arm. Judging by the look on Octavia’s face, she’d noticed. He was sure he’d have to deal with the repercussions of getting into a fight with his reflection when they landed in Hong Kong, but the noise of the chopper would make an argument next to impossible for the next several hours.

 

When they landed at the Shatterdome in Hong Kong, it was pouring rain. Lincoln and Octavia opened an umbrella for the walk inside, but Bellamy looked up and let the rain soak his skin as he walked toward the door.

O accosted him in the elevator.

“We’re going to medical,” she snapped.

Bellamy looked back and forth between her and Lincoln. The other man stood behind Octavia with his arms crossed over his chest, and Bellamy decided it was best not to argue. That, and his hand was incredibly swollen (and Bellamy was beginning to think some things were displaced under the mangled skin).

“Let’s hit LOCCENT first,” he said. “Then we can get our orders and you two can go check out Echo.”

Firebrand Echo was a Mark IV, restored from ruins at Oblivion Bay and rechristened for her second tour against the Kaiju. Octavia had actually been the first copilot choice for the new--and only--Mark V, but she and Lincoln had stood firm on piloting together.

Octavia’s eyes narrowed, but Lincoln brushed his hand against hers, and she didn’t protest her brother’s suggestion.  

The walk to LOCCENT was unexpectedly cut short when Wick, of all people, walked out of a door just paces in front of the three pilots. A grin cracked the tech’s face as he hugged Octavia, shook hands with Lincoln, and pulled Bellamy into a bear hug.

“Good to see you, too,” Bellamy said, words muffled by a mouthful of his friend’s shirt.

“Wick, this is my copilot, Lincoln,” Octavia said when Wick let go of Bellamy. “Lincoln, Wick is the Marshal’s right hand and the head LOCCENT guy.”

“Left hand, actually,” Wick said, shaking Lincoln’s outstretched hand. “Lexa’s the right hand now.”

“Who’s Lexa?” Bellamy asked, wincing as he shifted his duffel bag off his right arm.

“I’m sure there’s a lot to talk about,” Octavia cut in loudly. “But right now, Wick, you need to take my brother to medical while Lincoln and I go get our orders.”

“Nice to have you back, ‘Tavia,” Wick said.

Octavia nodded and walked away down the hall towards LOCCENT, followed by Lincoln.

“Medical, huh?” Wick asked as soon as they were gone, eyebrows shooting up towards his disheveled hair.

“Don’t ask,” was all Bellamy said in response.

 

The doctor was a scrawny guy named Jackson who couldn’t contain his shock at how long Bellamy had been running around with a broken hand. Wick stood off to the side and tried to contain his laughter when Jackson asked Bellamy to flex his fingers. Bellamy complied--in fact, he flexed his fingers right into the rudest gesture he could think of.

It turned out that nothing was displaced, but that the fractures were severe and that the laceration from the glass shard had to be scrubbed with Betadine.

“This will hurt,” Jackson warned, picking up a gauze strip soaked in the disinfectant.

“Yeah, I bet. You know, breaking my hand on a mirror was a real cakewalk,” Bellamy muttered. It might have been due to his sarcasm that Jackson scrubbed the cut much harder than necessary.

“Set it so I can hold a _kendo,”_ Bellamy instructed as Jackson wrapped the first layer of the cast onto his wrist. The medic rolled his eyes in obvious exasperation.

“Mr. Blake, you can’t hold _anything,_ ” he snapped. “You have five broken bones.”

“It’s _Ranger,_ ” Bellamy retorted. “Look, my hand flexes just fine.” He flipped Jackson off again, earning a poorly restrained snort from Wick.

Evidently, Jackson decided that anyone who could flip him the bird with five broken bones could do whatever the hell he wanted, because he silently handed Bellamy a short stick and told him to hold onto it while he put on the cast.

Once the plaster was set, Bellamy followed Wick out the door of the med bay and down the metal stairs onto the Dome floor, his friend narrating all the way.

“Firebrand Echo, that one’s your sister’s,” Wick said. “Mecha Brutus,” he indicated the next one in the bay, “Piloted by Chuck Hansen and John Murphy. Assholes, but they’re good. Crimson Spacewalker, holds the record for most Kaiju killed, piloted by Finn Collins and Raven Reyes. Reyes is one of two people to show proficiency in combat _and_ J-Tech. Like, ever.”

“Only three Jaegers?” Bellamy asked, opting to ignore the fuckstruck, moony-eyed look on Wick’s face.

“Four,” Wick corrected, making a beeline for where the pilots of Crimson Spacewalker and Mecha Brutus stood, obviously sizing up the new arrival. “Brawler Aurora’s being flown in, just slower than you got here. You know, the Mark V? Out of Anchorage?”

Bellamy nodded. “Isn’t some hotshot J-Tech piloting her?” he asked, trying to keep his tone level and uninterested.

“Yeah, head engineer on the project gets a spot in the conn pod,” Wick confirmed. “They’re screening for a copilot tomorrow, though, which is why you’re here--why do you ask?”

Bellamy cleared his throat. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Aurora was my mom’s name.”

Wick didn’t have time to respond--they’d reached the other four pilots. “Guys, this is Bellamy Blake,” he said. “Choppered in from Anchorage, one of the candidates for Brawler Aurora’s second pilot. Bellamy, this is Murphy, Chuck, Raven, and Finn.”

The girl stepped forward and stuck out her right hand. “Raven Reyes,” she said, settling for a fist-bump when she noticed the cast on his hand. She barely came up past Bellamy’s shoulder, but he saw the same ferocity in her that was always just beneath the surface in O.

“Finn Collins,” her copilot said, looking Bellamy up and down with obvious distaste. He made no move to shake Bellamy’s hand, but instead took Raven’s protectively in his own. _Jealous type,_ Bellamy thought.

The taller of the two remaining men stepped forward, offering his right hand with a challenge in his gray eyes. “Murphy,” he said. Bellamy matched his stare and even managed to survive Murphy’s crushing handshake without a grimace--or, miraculously, a blush.

“Nice, Blake,” Murphy said, eyebrows ticking up. “You can be my wingman any day.”

Bellamy turned to the last guy, a blond wearing a scowl that looked like it might be permanent. “Bellamy Blake,” he said, offering his hand.

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Chuck retorted, scorn dripping from his every syllable. He had a strong Australian accent and an even stronger attitude, Bellamy noted, withdrawing his hand. “Look, mate, what you did in Vancouver was great and all, but you’re a has-been. Don’t fuck this up for the rest of us--the ones who didn’t have to spend five years out of a Jaeger talking to a fuckin’ shrink.”

Chuck stalked away, followed by Murphy (who gave a haphazard salute in Bellamy’s direction as he turned away).

“Real ray of sunshine, that one,” Wick remarked.

“That ray of sunshine might be right,” Finn muttered.

Bellamy was saved from having to make a retort--or punch the guy in the teeth--by someone calling his name from behind him. He turned to see Marshal Hansen walking toward them, a smile on her careworn face.

“Good to see you, Marshal,” he said, grinning.

“You too, Ranger,” Hansen answered. “I’m here to give you your bunking assignment--” she handed over a slip of paper “--and to tell you to be at the Kwoon and ready for compatibility testing at 0600 tomorrow.” She frowned at his hand as she finished. “Are you cleared to spar?”

“Nope,” Bellamy said, popping the _p_ cheerfully. “I’ll be there, Marshal.”

Marshal Hansen shook her head. “You can’t test like that, much less pilot,” she began.

“Do you want me to pilot a Jaeger or play the piano?” Bellamy demanded, cutting across her. “I can do it.”

The Marshal sighed. “Fine,” she said, the look of disapproval softened by what Bellamy could’ve sworn was a smirk. “0600, Ranger. Bring your A-game, you’ll need it to spar with Ranger Griffin.”


	7. He's My Copilot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You guys, holy shit, I am //so// sorry I haven't updated in so long. It's been a really difficult few weeks for me mental and physical health wise, but I think I might be getting back on track. If you made it through that hiatus, thank you so much for sticking with me and I hope Bellarke finally meeting makes up for my lack of updates. 
> 
> Fair warning, this is not my best chapter. Megan looked at it for me, but it's still all...yeah. I may edit it a bit at some point, but my main concern was just posting it and getting this chapter out of my hair. 
> 
> NOTE: Nine o'clock is your left, three is your right, your six is behind you and twelve is front. It's a military thing.

JANUARY 26, 2025

 

Clarke had lost track of how long the helicopters had been in the air. The ocean was black beneath them and the sky blacker still around them, broken up only by Aurora’s orange warning lights flashing from below. Miller was sound asleep on the bench across from her--he, too, had insisted on flying with their Jaeger rather than in the much faster and warmer Pave Low helicopter they’d been offered. Working on Aurora, she’d found a strange sense of camaraderie with the head mechanic and his mismatched group of friends. Monty Green and Jasper Jordan had been transferred on incredibly short notice two weeks ago, and Harper had remained in Anchorage. Miller, however, had been tasked to Hong Kong as Aurora’s head mechanic--which was how he’d ended up in the chopper with Clarke as they crossed miles of open water carrying a two-hundred-and-seventy-foot tall weapon.

Clarke glanced across at Miller once more before reaching into her battered manila folder--the same one she’d been keeping schematics in for years--and pulled out a carefully folded list of names. The top of the paper read: _BRAWLER AURORA PILOT CANDIDATES--CONFIDENTIAL_.

Clarke reached for the pen behind her ear and began reading names, occasionally circling one and jotting down a note in the margin. She hadn’t heard of most of these rangers, and suspected many of them had just graduated the Academy. Shaking her head, Clarke kept skimming through the list. She didn’t need some hotshot kid beside her in Aurora’s conn pod. She needed someone experienced in combat--someone who already knew the ins and outs of piloting. In a perfect world, she’d have someone like--

“Bellamy Blake?” Clarke exclaimed aloud, staring at the list incredulously. Miller started awake and sat up, peering first at his watch and then out the chopper window.

“Bellamy what?” Miller asked through a yawn, rubbing his eyes.

“Bellamy Blake,” Clarke repeated. “He’s listed for pilot testing, look.” She shoved the list at her friend, and Miller’s eyes widened when he read the bold letters across the top of the page.

“Clarke, how did you get this?” Miller asked, sounding fully awake now. “You’re not supposed to know who you’re testing with. You could get court martialed for this,” he added, looking her dead in the eye.

“I know,” Clarke assured him. “I was careful. No one will find out. But look at--”

“I know Bellamy’s name is on there,” Miller cut in loudly. “I read it, same as you. What’s your game here, Clarke?”

“I need to be the best,” Clarke said simply. “I’m looking for the person who will help me be that.”

Miller let out a sigh, looking exhausted beyond his years, and Clarke could see him getting ready to have the same conversation they’d had again and again over the last eleven months.

“Nate, I’ll be okay,” she told him. “Trust me.”

“You only use my first name when you’re worried about me,” he shot back, the barest hint of a smile breaking over his face.

“Why can’t _you_ just be my copilot?” Clarke grumbled, shoving the list back in her folder and moving over to share Miller’s bench.

“Something about spreading your wings and becoming who you were born to be, blah blah blah,” Miller supplied sarcastically, wrapping an arm around Clarke’s shoulders and leaning his head back against the wall.

“You sound like Rafiki in the Lion King,” Clarke muttered, but leaned into Miller’s shoulder and closed her eyes all the same.

 

The landing alarms jerked Clarke awake, and a quick glance out her window told her that the Hong Kong sky had opened not long before their arrival. Rain came down in dark sheets, the low-hanging clouds obscuring the top of the Shatterdome. While the cabled-together chopper formation carrying Clarke’s Jaeger moved into position to set Aurora down, her and Miller’s helicopter descended to the tarmac. Clarke shouldered her duffel bag and stepped out of the machine into the rain, inhaling deeply through her nose.

“Here,” Miller said from behind her, handing her an open umbrella. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Clarke answered, trying to fill her voice with confidence she didn’t feel.

“Nervous about sparring with the great Bellamy Blake in three hours?” he teased.

“A little, actually,” Clarke admitted, frowning as she looked at her watch. 0300. The nap on the chopper had been smart, she realized.

“Remember what I always say and you’ll be fine,” Miller advised as they walked through the open bay doors towards the elevator.

“Which one?” Clarke asked in mock puzzlement. “‘Fuck ‘em all’? ‘Where’s my fucking wrench’? ‘I'm gonna punch Jasper right in the goddamn face’?”

“Kill your heroes,” Miller corrected, rolling his eyes as they stepped into the elevator. "Jasper's overdue to get clocked in the teeth, though."

The Shatterdome was eerily quiet now, in the hours before LOCCENT personnel would begin waking up. The night crews were on until 0500--but all the same, the facility was only barely halfway staffed. Walking down the long hall to LOCCENT,  Clarke was reminded of her early mornings at the Academy, waking up before her classmates to spend hours in the Kwoon before classes.

Clarke and Miller passed the darkened med bay and walked in the LOCCENT doors. A tech was checking the Breach signatures, and five people who looked to be about Clarke’s age were hackey-sacking off to one side of the room. She paid them no mind, walking toward the sandy-haired man sitting at the controls--that is, until one of them shouted her name and raced across the room. Clarke barely had time to recognize Monty’s grin and black hair before he tackled her into a bone-crushing hug.

“Hi,” she managed, squeezing back with her free arm.

Jasper abandoned the other three and crossed the room to hug Clarke, still holding the hackey sack. He moved as if to hug Miller, too, but must have thought better of it after seeing the other man's scowl.

“I didn’t realize you guys got transferred _here_ ,” Clarke said, once she’d disentangled herself from Jasper.

Monty nodded, suddenly serious. “Yeah,” he said. “We found out two hours before the chopper took off.”

Clarke frowned, about to ask who’d given the order, when her thoughts were interrupted by a girl clearing her throat and tapping Jasper on the shoulder.

“Dude, you took the hackeysack,” the girl said, hands on her hips, and Clarke fought to keep her jaw from dropping because _holy shit, that’s Raven Reyes_ , and when the two other men walked across the room to join them all, Clarke recognized Finn Collins and John Murphy--and, _holy shit_.

Raven’s eyes narrowed in recognition when they fell on Clarke’s face. “Clarke Griffin, right?” she said, stepping up and offering a handshake.

Clarke managed a nod and shook Raven’s hand, not quite believing that she was really meeting the pilots of Crimson Spacewalker and Mecha Brutus.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Raven said enthusiastically, releasing Clarke’s hand and stepping back. “Is your Jaeger here too?”

“Yeah, we choppered in with her,” Clarke said, instantly more at ease once Jaegers made it into the conversation.

“Rae wanted to see Aurora more than she wanted to meet you,” Finn said, offering Clarke his hand. “Finn Collins.”

“Nice to meet you,” Clarke said, praying her smile didn’t look too awestruck.

“Don’t worry, we’re all nervous as shit about meeting you too,” John Murphy drawled, grinning. “Not many new grads design and pilot the first Mark V.”

Clarke shook his hand as well, not backing down when he grated the bones of her hand together.

“Nice,” Murphy said, eyebrows quirking up. He muttered aside to Raven: “They both passed.”

“Passed what?” Clarke asked. “And by the way, why are you guys hackey sacking in LOCCENT? It’s, like..” she glanced at her dad’s watch, “three in the morning.”

“You passed Murph’s handshake,” Raven explained. “And none of us really sleep anymore, y’know?”

Clarke nodded in understanding. Sleep wasn’t something she did much of anymore, either. Too much pain waited behind her eyelids, waiting to make itself known. Jaeger pilots didn’t sleep.

“So, you want the grand tour?” Finn asked her, an eager smile spreading across his face.

“No, thank you,” Clarke said, straightening her back. “I know what a Shatterdome looks like. I’m going down to the Kwoon to warm up.”

“It’s three fifteen in the morning,” Finn said slowly. “Tests aren’t until six, Princess.”

“I’m aware,” Clarke bit out. “I’d like to be prepared.”

Finn let out a chuckle, and Raven looked at Murphy as if to say, _not again._

“Don’t like being called princess...do you, Princess,” he smirked, and it took all of Clarke’s self-control not to hit him.

“Knock it off,” Raven said through her teeth, digging an elbow into her copilot’s ribs. “We’ll let you practice, Ranger,” she said, shooting a smile at Clarke.

“Thank you,” Clarke said. “Nice to meet you,” she added to the three pilots.

“Can we come watch the tests?” Jasper asked her as the pilots of Crimson Spacewalker and Mecha Brutus turned away. Clarke laughed.

“If you want,” she said. “It’s not like you guys have never seen me spar.”

“This one’s a big deal, though,” Monty pointed out. The ball of nerves in the pit of Clarke’s stomach flared again, but before she could work herself up again, Miller appeared at her shoulder.

“I checked us both in with Wick, you chatterbox,” he said gruffly. “Go beat the shit out of something, ‘kay?”

“Thank you,” Clarke said, handing Miller her duffel bag and pecking him on the cheek. “See you guys soon!” she called over her shoulder.

 

The Kwoon was blissfully empty when Clarke stepped inside and toed off her shoes. She grabbed a _kendo_ from the rack on the wall and rolled her shoulders, picturing a room full of adversaries. Giving faces to her nightmares had become easier with hundreds of hours of sparring, and now it was easy to see her mother and Wells before her. Thelonious Jaha always came next, followed by Marcus Kane and face after face from the WSC. Raven and Finn made their customary appearances as the pilots with the highest kill count, and Octavia Blake with her incredible test scores.

Clarke took her fighting stance and waited exactly one breath before she began swinging. When the physical exertion had become easy for her, she’d begun to focus on perfecting her technique and her footwork, learning to wield a _kendo_ with skill rather than relying on brute force and unpredictable aggression to win matches. Now, it no longer took all of her concentration to make her movements precise and deliberate--nor did it take all of her strength to make her strikes brutal.

As she swung and ducked and whirled around the room, Clarke allowed herself to wonder about the one thing she’d yet to face--namely, Bellamy Blake. Not many people got the chance to spar with one of their idols. She found herself wondering if he could still hold his own in a fight after Vancouver, or whether he’d become a lifeless husk of a person like she had after her father’s death.

Everyone in the world knew who Bellamy Blake was. He was the only pilot ever to attempt and survive solo combat, and he had been a formidable opponent before the PPDC yanked his drifting privileges for five years. Clarke had studied his fighting technique while she was at the Academy--not for classes, but in her effort to be the best. She’d spent hours looking for weaknesses, and as she imagined the elder pilot of Atlas Swift in front of her, it wasn’t hard to imagine what they would be.

Arrogance and overconfidence were likely to be among his first mistakes. He was good, after all. Clarke feinted right, struck left, and sent her foe reeling from a blow to the elbow.

 _Anger_ , she thought. Anger would come next. She imagined Bellamy swinging recklessly, aiming only to impact, and ducked the strike before leveling a blow to the backs of his knees and sending him to the mat. When the imagined ranger didn’t stand back up, Clarke spun to begin beating back the wave of faces from her nightmares.

 _It’s a dialogue, not a fight_ , Clarke’s instructor had told her countless times during her two years of school. And yet, Clarke had never been able to make it anything other than a fight.

It was always about winning--or when she worked alone, about inflicting more pain than her demons had dealt to her. She was acutely aware that the only way she’d get a copilot was if any of the candidates could match that ferocity. Otherwise, she’d be stuck on the sidelines as a J-Tech for the foreseeable rest of the war.

 

Clarke’s watch started beeping mere minutes before pilot testing was scheduled to start, jarring her out of the trance she’d been working in. Looking up, Clarke saw Marshal Hansen at the door, clipboard in hand and scowling.

“Good morning, Ranger,” the Marshal called, the barest hint of sarcasm in her tone.

“Marshal,” Clarke answered, more out of breath than she’d have liked to admit.

“I’d ask you to go make yourself presentable,” Hansen said dryly, “but the candidates are lined up outside that door.”

“I’m ready,” Clarke said, retying her hair so it no longer clung to her face and neck where it had slipped from her braid earlier. “This is presentable enough.”

Hansen’s mouth firmed into a line, but judging by the crinkles around her eyes, she was hiding a smile. Clarke suppressed one of her own as the Marshal leaned out into the hallway to call the candidates in.

 

The first three fights were quick--Clarke had all of them pinned in seconds--and when she looked over at Miller, the look on his face was proof enough that they’d been too quick.

 _Is it me or is it them?_ Clarke wanted to shout. But there wasn’t time to go ask Miller’s advice--and anyway, she couldn’t ask for help in front of the Marshal, all the candidates, and the pilots of the other Jaegers. _Kill your heroes,_ Miller had told her.

“I’ll go next, Marshal,” a deep voice drawled from where the candidates were standing. Clarke spun around to be met with the sight of Bellamy Blake toeing off his boots and picking up a _kendo._

“Actually, I’m next,” a wiry boy said firmly.

“You’re gonna get your ass kicked, Pete,” Bellamy warned, ignoring the kid’s mumble of “Dude, it’s Patrick.”

“And you’re not?” Clarke snapped, drawing every eye in the room.  “Confident, aren’t we?”

“What?” Bellamy smirked, leaning on his _kendo_. “Scared you can’t take me?” Clarke barely contained herself from rolling her eyes before her attention shifted to his right hand. It was in a cast, the exposed skin just above his wrist black and purple.

“What did you do to your hand?” she asked evenly. He’d likely shattered several bones.

“Punched a mirror, Princess,” Bellamy shot back. “That a problem?”

"For you, maybe," Clarke said. "Come on, let’s do this."

Bellamy’s eyes narrowed and he moved into a stance that was almost identical to Clarke’s own. Clarke felt the familiar fire singing in her blood as she raised her _kendo_ , and she didn’t wait for the other ranger to strike first. She flew at Bellamy, shocks reverberating up her arms when he blocked her swing with a combination of speed and force she’d never felt in a match before. Her next swing went low, aiming for his knees like she had in practice--but she barely had time to set up for the blow when Bellamy knocked her back, a two-handed strike that nearly hit her face.

“Fight like you normally do!” Jasper shouted from the corner, followed by a muffled _thump_ and a wheezing noise that probably meant Miller had finally punched him.

“Yeah, come on, Princess,” Bellamy breathed, light dancing in his dark eyes and a grin tugging at his mouth. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

 _Kill your heroes,_ Clarke thought once more--and then she was charging, raining lightning fast blows on Bellamy, pressing him back across the Kwoon almost into the wall. He matched her blow for blow, step for step, breath for breath, the _clack_ ing of the _kendos_ filling the air around them. In the blink of an eye, Bellamy was on the offensive, all but chasing Clarke back across the ground she’d gained, his strikes coming in a rhythm Clarke could almost sense in advance. She moved away faster than he was chasing her, buying herself a split second to prepare for a move that would pin him down and end the match. Bellamy hadn't made any of the mistakes she'd predicted he would. He was good, but she could still win.

Clarke left her nine open on purpose, just waiting for Bellamy to take the bait--only he didn’t. Instead he moved forward, crowding her back a step, and struck at her three. She managed to block--barely--ducked right, and swung at Bellamy’s hip. Or at least, where his hip should have been. He leapt back, and Clarke’s blow fell short.

“Concentrate,” he told her, smirking. “It’s not a fight.”

 _Yes it is_ , Clarke thought, swinging again. Her blow glanced off Bellamy’s _kendo_ , which hadn’t even _been_ there a fraction of a second earlier, and she was about to accuse him of cheating when he spun them around and pressed her back, striking with renewed force as if to say _Fair enough, Princess_.

The words came to her unbidden, and Clarke could have sworn she’d felt Bellamy thinking the words. Something about them, combined with the pace of the fight, carried the cadence of his voice.

 _It’s called ghosting_ , her mind supplied helpfully. She’d read about it happening with pilots who’d been drifting with one another for a long time, people who lived in one another’s heads. Ghosting didn’t happen without drifting, though; and the realization seemed to hit Bellamy harder than it hit her. His eyes widened, and Clarke found an opening in his previously impenetrable defense. She ducked, went for his leg, and a split second later she’d thrown him to the mat.

“That’s enough,” Marshal Hansen shouted, striding furiously across the room. “When I say a match is over, Rangers, it is _over_.”

Bellamy was somehow on his feet already, towering over the Marshal. “Honest mistake, Marshal. Didn’t hear you.” He sounded shaken, but changed hands so that his kendo was in his injured hand and offered his left hand to Clarke.

Hansen narrowed her eyes. “Now is not a good time for your attitude, Ranger,” she warned. “I’ve seen what I need to see from both of you.”

“So have I,” Clarke said, surprising herself by taking the offered hand and letting Bellamy pull her to her feet. “He’s my copilot.”


End file.
